


cherries and wine

by dazaicat



Series: blue [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Unrequited Love, lapslock, there's no happy ending here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 19:53:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11790303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dazaicat/pseuds/dazaicat
Summary: there’s a certain kind of danger, yura thinks close to the end, in assuming that someone taking the first step would mean you’re not the one falling over the edge.





	cherries and wine

**Author's Note:**

> title from [cherry by lana del rey](https://genius.com/Lana-del-rey-cherry-lyrics).  
> please heed the tags.  
> (hanahaki au - unrequited love causes one to throw up flower petals, where the only real cure is feelings being returned.)

there’s a certain kind of danger, yura thinks close to the end, in assuming that someone taking the first step would mean you’re not the one falling over the edge.

so it is: otabek reaches out his hand, but when he pulls it’s the ground disappearing underneath yura’s feet, not otabek’s. he does the next best thing for both of them; he’s good at cutting losses like he’s good at cutting out people like he’s good at cutting out the weaker parts of himself that never quite meshed with the tempered-steel replacements for his soul.

he lets go.

xxxxxx

the irony is that it creeps up on him in perfect parallel with his own feelings.

when you get a cough, your first thought isn’t _i’m dying._

when you get a warm feeling in the pit of your stomach looking at your best friend lace up his skates, your first thought isn’t _i’m in love._

he treats both as natural ailments that are cured with dutiful application of time and rest; yura is an athlete, and athletes who support their family through their sport do not get room for sickness. the itching at the back of his throat he attributes to the cold dry air at the rink and treats with honey-lemon cough drops; the itching at the back of his mind he attributes to otabek’s reliable and solid presence and treats with sweet-sour insults.

he doesn’t think of more sinister things, like _love,_ because there isn’t space in the life of an athlete for that either.

so instead yura plisetsky has a developing cold and a developing warmth for otabek and he doesn’t mention either of those things to anyone. he’s dealt with worse, and this leap of faith in the universe isn’t the riskiest jump he’s taken in his career.

(he’s landed them all, every single one, because he can afford to gamble but he can’t afford to lose.)

except: a boy who spends most of his time on the ice naturally doesn’t think about seeds, or growth, or even warmth — nothing can grow in ice, after all. but no matter how much yura polishes his cold and smooth exterior to bear the weight of everything that seeks to break him, he’s not quite ice himself.

he should not forget that.

xxxxxx

he forgets that.

xxxxxx

he starts coughing. it’s an instinctive thing; the air is so _dry_ and _itchy_ and _cold_ and the back of his throat feels like sandpaper and his lungs constrict and then he’s fighting for his breath.

otabek grows increasingly more concerned each time it happens.

he says so — in his own steady otabek way, tight-lipped frowny-eyed disapproval, worry glinting in dark eyes. he tucks yura closer, offers him scarves, doesn’t let him practice more. gently sidesteps yura’s protests, the _you’ll just catch this bug from me and we’ll both be sick and miserable otabek oh my god._

though, really: if this was a bug otabek could catch from yura through sheer proximity, he wouldn’t be having the problem in the first place.

xxxxxx

it all slides into sharp focus one day he’s on the ice. speaks volumes that when his breath catches that’s not what’s unusual; speaks volumes that otabek is by his side immediately, rubbing his back. this is how worry looks in otabek’s language, yura knows. this is how he shows care, knows that it’s an otabek thing and expecting anything less than the nagging fear of otabek dragging him off to _see a doctor, yura, this can’t be normal, and it only seems to be getting worse_ is underestimating otabek himself.

yura doesn’t know how long he can resist him.

he also doesn’t want to know what he’ll find out once he stops.

it’s that thought that leads him to accept the warm water cup and the jacket and to hide the shaking of his shoulders in both. the warm water is soothing, slightly sweet on his tongue, and he sees otabek’s frown lose a little of its sharp edge in the corner of his eye as his breathing runs a little easier.

then he makes the mistake of looking down into the clean-white paper cup and almost chokes.

the red drop spreads in the clear liquid just like sudden terror spreads through yura, and he downs it in one gulp, hoping none of it stained his lips. he crushes the cup in his fist for good measure. _i’m going to the washroom,_ he says, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice. _be right back._ for a second, a terrifying second, it looks like otabek will come along.

 _stay there, beka, i’m fine,_ he calls, and it’s a little sharp, just sharp enough to keep otabek from following.

when he gets to the bathroom, he’s on his knees. the itch _burns,_ and so do his lungs, and his knuckles are white with the grip he has on the porcelain — or perhaps with terror — as he coughs and coughs and coughs and _coughs._

amid the droplets of copper-red, he coughs up tiny blue petals.

xxxxxx

this, he knows: otabek can’t know. no one can know. otabek will bring him to a doctor, a doctor will know immediately what’s wrong with him, and it’s not something they can fix, it’s not something _anyone_ can fix. no one can find out. no one.

xxxxxx

this, he learns: history repeats itself, and he is no exception. he should know better than to leap before being absolutely certain that he’ll land right.

xxxxxx

it’s the most amusing thing of all that of all the things otabek notices, he notices all the wrong ones — of all the things that otabek feels, he feels all the wrong ones. he notices the way yura’s shoulders shake with repressed heaves; he doesn’t notice the shimmering translucent blue yura wipes from his lips with his sleeve. he feels admiration, respect, affection; he doesn’t feel what yura feels.

it’s this gap in their understanding, yura thinks, almost delirious, that forms the chasm between their feet. a gap he doesn’t know how to begin to bridge. how many words does it take to tell your best friend that you’re choking on your feelings so much you’re certain you will die from it? otabek holds on to his shoulders, both hands a solid weight, gaze an even heavier one as he looks at yura. it’s almost enough to bridge the gap; not quite.

(he’d say the way otabek looks at him sometimes, all warm and fond, is almost enough to fill the gaps between his breaths, but it’s also _not quite_ and he knows it’s not fair to otabek or to himself to think that way.)

otabek is saying something, voice hot and eyes somehow desperate, and yura feels like laughing at the irony there too. _of the two of us, who has more at stake? who should be desperate, and who resigned?_

 _do you care about me,_ yura rasps.

 _of course i care about you,_ otabek says, confusion and hurt plain on his face.

 _not like that,_ yura breathes, tired. he thumps his forehead against otabek’s. _not like that._

 _then like what?_ otabek asks.

there are many things that yura could possibly say to that but in that moment he doesn’t know which is most apt. instead, he demonstrates — _show not tell, actions speak louder than words,_ all that — tips his chin down, slots his ice-cold lips to otabek’s ember-warm ones, and slides his eyes closed.

otabek gives him an answer of his own, too, when he jerks back and his grip on yura’s shoulders goes slack.

it’s so predictable that yura starts to laugh, mirthless, at the sheer level of  _pathetic_ he’s managed to attain, but then the laughter takes a turn for the more jagged and hoarse and it feels like skate-blades slicing through the ice of his lungs and everything feels sharp: otabek’s fingers digging into his shoulders, otabek’s voice raised in concern.

 _i love you,_ he means to say, but there is too little air. instead of words, little pale-blue petals fall from his lips. _but you don’t love me back,_ they say, and it’s almost close enough.

the last thing he sees is the shock on otabek’s face as his eyelashes flutter faster than his heartbeat and the world melts into dark void.

the last thing he thinks of isn’t his life as an athlete, or his family, or the acquaintainces he’s made as he skated along.

it’s otabek.

**Author's Note:**

> the good thing about vague endings is that you can imagine [everything somehow turned out to be okay at the end](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11792733).  
> thank you for reading! i appreciate each little bit of feedback.


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